


Agents of Baseball

by ShadowCatsKey



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baseball, Baseball team alternate universe, Basically everyone will show up at some point - Freeform, Even if they're not tagged, Everyone lives but a lot of people might still hate eachother, Gen, This is what happens when you binge SHIELD during the MLB playoffs, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowCatsKey/pseuds/ShadowCatsKey
Summary: Phil Coulson has gotten his chance to become the manager of an up and coming baseball team, The Washington D.C. 'SHIELD'. After spending time as a staff member on a winning group up in New York, this is his chance to prove he has the ability to build and succeed with a team of his own. He's gotten some good talent around him- but there's also the problem of the talent that he had to let go.A series of oneshots/drabbles to come!





	Agents of Baseball

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, this is the lovechild that came from binging a SHIELD re-watch during the MLB playoffs. I joked about an Avengers baseball team /way/ back, and so when I started joking about a SHIELD one, I decided, y'know, this could make for a fun series of occasional drabbles/oneshots.
> 
> A team roster will be placed at the notes at the end!
> 
> Thank you!  
\- Margot / ShadowCatsKey

“That’s quite a roster you got there, Phil.”

Sunglasses were pulled down so that way Coulson could get a good look at who was coming, even though that deep, amicable voice couldn’t belong to anyone else. His mouth upturned in a grin as he lowered the tablet and turned to look toward the security gate near first base. An officer held the door open briefly, long enough for a tall, dark skinned man to let himself through. The suit he wore looked more like a psychiatrist than a sports commentator’s, though Coulson was pretty sure the guy had a degree in the former, as well. Diverse, talented guy.

Coulson liked diverse, talented people.

“Andrew!” He greeted with a hand extended; the gesture was reciprocated in a hearty, swift manner. Always one to give sincere handshakes, Andrew was. “What brings you onto the diamond today?” With the hand that Andrew had shook, Coulson gestured briefly to the field beyond them, where grounds-keeping had produced a spectacular surface to use during this homecoming. “The station doesn’t get one of our games televised until Friday.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to do my homework,” Andrew mussed with his credentials with one forefinger and thumb as he put the badge back in his coat pocket.

“Of course not,” Coulson had expected that answer, but it never hurt to hear it. Never hurt to have a benign conversation with someone he saw as a friend.

Heh.

Friends, with the media- some fans would likely have his head if they heard that. Well, that dynamic would only go so far as his team did; either they’d make him look like a mad genius, or a fool who didn’t have any idea what he was doing. No matter what his team did – and he was certain they wouldn’t make him look_ that _ bad – Andrew was Andrew. He had his job to do, giving color commentary on the team’s television station. Coulson just had to give Adrew good material to work with, so there’d be good things to say.

Such a simple goal, but at the same time, so difficult in practice.

“So,” Phil said as he gestured again, this time not at the general landscape, but toward where he could see some of his team taking some early morning stretches before they did a simulated game. “What do you think?”

Beside him, Andrew adjusted his posture; squared his shoulders, rolled his head to get a small _ pop _ in his neck, then let his torso heave with a deep breath. Time to get serious. The commentator eyed the players, more curious than scrutinizing. “Four years ago, they put in that stipulation to give the green light to co-ed teams,” He murmured, his eyes shifting to the side, his gaze on Coulson again without having to turn his head. “And in the first year, only two teams took advantage of that rule- Noone was surprised when New York did it. But then this first-time manager down in D.C. is seen calling up a pitcher that set the league’s headlines on fire."

There was no point in pretending he wasn’t proud of the idea. New York had left him with a good framework- but he'd added some ideas of his own. With his mouth somehow hiding his teeth, Coulson let his gaze drift toward the bullpen, a gated off area at the very end of the field, by the stands, where he could see his pitchers, both starters and relievers, milling about, talking amongst one another along with the starting catcher. One particular set of blonde hair - a tan dot from that distance, really - caught his eye. “If I hadn’t called up Bobbi, she would’ve stormed into my office and put her name on the roster herself.”

“Not long after that,” Andrew continued his narrative with amusement in his eyes. “There’s a shortstop-”

“Piper works magic between second and third,” Coulson admired. “And has a real good connection with Davis when he’s on first.”

“-a right fielder-”

“Elena patrols that corner better than anyone else.”

“-a reliever-”

“Simmons can work the strikezone like an artist,” Coulson rolled the tablet in his arms so he could see the data on its screen- analytics, digital data points that described contact zones and swing-to-contact and hit-and-miss ratios which proved his point. “She has baiting and painting the corners down to a damn science; have you _ seen _ the footage of her slider?” Coulson was tempted to push a few keys on the tablet, tempted to bring up a clip- but it was a rhetorical question. _ Everyone _ had seen footage of that slider.

“And,” Andrew said instead. “A new third basemen.”

The grin remained on Coulson’s face. Bobbi had been that fun first step, and the others amazing additions to follow, but Daisy? That was one of his most personal victories. Other teams had foolishly passed her over, left her in a van outside a minor league stadium. Perfect for the taking. “Daisy is Allstar caliber, they’re just afraid to vote her in.” The fans were getting better, slowly but surely- but there was still a ways to go to get his girls into Allstar festivities. “She gets that ball to first on a dime. She makes defense look easy. She scares runners from taking extra bases. Sometimes I wonder if she’s somehow secretly controlling the ball after it’s already left her fingers. With fishing line, or a sonic canon, or, something.”

Beside him, Andrew took all this information in; he'd probably heard all of Coulson's rambling before, with how long he'd covered the team, but maybe Coulson had sparked some new thoughts that morning. Maybe some new confidence, or perspective. “They are good,” Andrew agreed after a moment. “League’s had a year to look at footage now, though. Teams will have made adjustments.”

“Oh, I hope they have.” Phil rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, a positive energy in his system. A challenge, that's what this year would be. With the tablet held secure, he let his eyes wander back to the players. Over in right field, directly across from them, he saw as a game of catch began, a casual exercise to warm up their arms and help gather their focus. Piper altered her arm angles every couple of throws as she tossed a ball at Bobbi, who was able to track and catch every single one. Elena and Daisy were in on that game as well, occasionally catching throws from Bobbi, or Piper, or tossing something back to any of the others.

Yes, the league would be more prepared to deal with his acquisitions, but that wasn’t a bad thing. How to explain that, though?

A moment of quiet ended with a moment of brilliance.

He was going to have some fun with this.

“Do you play Monopoly, Andrew?”

The commentator hummed lightly. “Only when I feel like I need a justified reason to be angry at someone.” However, he shook his head, a small, playful motion. “I kid- it can be fun. But, why?”

“Well, there’s two types of games. There’s the sort where one person knows what they’re doing, and everyone else just can’t keep up.” Coulson worked to adjust the watch on his wrist; damn thing liked to slide around. Still needed to get that strap fixed. “Those games are quick, sure, and sometimes it can be fun to be the one who winds up with all the properties. But it can get boring fast. Why do anything if you know you’re going to win that easily?”

“You sure about that?” The man motioned with his head toward the stands, which were empty save for the occasional security or scouting personnel- no fans in sight. “I’m sure some fans would like that sort of security.”

“Would they, though?” Coulson could hear the way Andrew was not-so-subtly encouraging this ramble, but since Coulson felt strongly enough about the concept, he went on anyway. “Sure, it’d be nice for a while, a season where you know the team’s going to win every single game- the only question being, how, who, and by how much? A run or four, a double, a home run, a steal, a wild pitch?” He rocked his hand back and forth with each option. “But before long, people would get bored. We win, all the time. No challenge. No competition. That’s the problem basketball and football have right now.” He blew a sharp breath through his nose. “Everything goes through Golden Sate and New England. And anyone who goes there, the fans don’t actually expect to win- they just want to know how badly they’ll lose.”

“So you prefer the _ other _ type of game.”

Coulson nodded. “The other type, where there’s two or more players sitting all around the board, their pieces in place, properties set up so it will take a mixture of luck and skill to get through. There’s not one dominant force, but instead, a web of players where the actions of one can affect _ so _ much else.” He shrugged one shoulder, the motion complete with a raised hand and palm pointed toward the sky. “Toiling and eventually bringing down the others takes a helluva long time, but it feels far more rewarding in the end, to beat the guys who stole Boardwalk from them instead of the people too stupid to buy it in the first place.”

“And _ that _ is why no one can ever fully satisfy an entire fanbase.”

“You know what they say- _ listen to the fans and you’ll be sitting with them. _”

With that, Andrew leaned forward, half his body now in sunlight, and able to get a better look at Phil’s face. “At the same time, that metaphor is… oddly specific.” He stood back up straight and gestured with an elbow at him. “Got personal experience, Phil?”

Coulson threw his free hand up and let out an – amusedly – exasperated breath. “Monopoly is a popular game on The Bus between starts, but I definitely recommend reading the instructions _ before _ you have your freaking genius of a catcher school you in gameplay, especially with house rules involved.” Sometimes Coulson forgot just how ruthless his catcher could be- the game had been going well, a couple small properties and a small free parking bonus to his name, _ and then _ one pretty red hotel meant he was left owing more than he thought _ possible _ as Fitz merely smiled and held out his hand.

Laughter echoed off of the brick-covered field walls as Andrew lifted a hand to press against his temple. Had he seen that story coming? Probably not. Didn’t change the fact that every word was true- maybe that made the story even better. Maybe Phil would invite Andrew to fly along on the team's plane - affectionately nicknamed The Bus - once the regular season started. Andrew was a smart guy. Surely, he could hold his own during the board games or group discussions.

“That’s definitely a new one,” Andrew swallowed as his laughter ended, though his posture more obviously reflected his raised spirits. “Monopoly as team bonding? Really?”

“Eh,” Coulson had to admit as he rocked back and forth, slowly, gently, in a positive tick. “More like _ ‘how long is it going to take for Fitzsimmons to run one another into the ground once they bankrupt the rest of us. _’ The real team bonding is placing bets on which is going to win and making food while we watch. And wondering if the plane will land before the game ends.”

The plane always landed first.

As his words faded, there was the sound of footsteps nearby, cleats on grass.

“If you don’t stop telling all those stories, you’re going to convince Andrew all we do is screw around instead of practice.”

Ah, there she was. Since she hadn’t been over in that trio of catch near first base, or at the batting cage, Coulson had been wondering where May had gotten to. He turned on his heels to face his hitting coach, and nodded in response to her raised brow. “That’s what you’re for, though, to make people realize we run a tight ship. Because, well." He gave a simple shrug. "Sometimes they don’t believe me.”

'They' being the media. Or the fans. Or anyone. Put on a smile, and people squinted.

May, though? There wasn’t a single doubt about how seriously people took her. “Damn right,” May raised and lowered her chin, smug, before she let the appeased look slide off her face. More seriousness. “There’s some actual business, though.”

Coulson straightened up, intrigued, his fingers clutching the tablet just a little bit more.

“Just got a call,” One of May’s hands twitched slightly, as if to gesture toward the phone in her pocket. “You’ll be glad to hear who just walked through the front gate.”

Yes, yes, _ yes. _ If he had been excited before, Coulson’s heart now surged with renewed energy, better than any coffee could ever be. Just like he’d thought a mere moment ago; even if he _ knew _what was coming, that didn’t make the words any less enjoyable. He'd been waiting for this. _Everyone_ had been waiting for this. “He’s cleared to practice today?”

May gave a quick, small nod, the corner of her mouth turned up in a way that said her mind was already working. “Even better- he’s cleared for all activity.”

Andrew let his hands rest on his sides, his head tilted in intrigue. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Peterson, would you?”

“Damn right,” Coulson echoed as he started to make marks and notes on the tablet. What good timing. Coulson almost had to wonder if Andrew had an inkling about what was going on; if he'd purposely chosen today to visit, instead of the day before, or the day after. Not that it mattered. This was good, in fact, this was _ more _ than good- starting pitching was not only a key element in the game itself, but _ good _ starting pitching meant the difference between feeling like his team had a good lead, or nowhere near enough of a lead. They had hitters on their offense, sure, and they had improving defense- but none of that mattered if they didn’t have someone to shut the opposing hitters down. Scoring six or seven runs didn’t matter if the opposition got something like ten or twelve.

Mike Peterson could _ be _ that difference.

“How’s his leg?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

There he was; emerging from the tunnel in the dugout, a neon blue glove in one hand, a hat in the other, at least until the cap – with the team’s eagle and circle logo – was on his head, where it cast shade over a pair of confident, charismatic eyes. Without the slightest limp, Mike jogged up the final stairs then crossed the warning track. The scene was like a movie, just without the music or dramatic camera pan, or cut to another scene. Instead, Mike came to a simple stop when he was in the same wall of shade that covered Phil, May and Andrew.

All three gravitated toward him. How could they not?

_ Mike Peterson was back_.

“I wasn’t expecting you until the end of April,” Coulson admitted as he shook Mike’s hand, the motion more than enthusiastic. 

“We’ve got good doctors around here,” Mike glanced down at his right knee. The area around the knee cap and one spot further down both had visible scar tissue, but there was no more of that inflammation which had made his leg look so _ wrong _, as if something had been shoved inside and had been trying to break free. “Tried some experimental stuff, and it’s paying off.”

“What do you think?” Coulson asked as Mike shook Andrew’s hand, then May’s. When Mike looked over, Phil gestured over toward the bullpen. “Want to show me what you can do, maybe see if you can give us a start on Sunday?”

Mike gave a sharp frown; a competitor’s frown. “Sunday? But the season starts next Monday.”

“It does.” He didn’t need to look at the tablet to know that; every paper and social media outlet was already abuzz with the start of the season, wondering how the team would do- the ragtag unit that Coulson had scraped back together. “But you tore up your leg, Mike, I don’t need to remind you of that.” The clip of that incident had gone viral; it still got new views on youtube, and no doubt would start circulating _ again _ on social media now that he was making his comeback. “I’m not going to rush to the starting gate. Give me a good session today, and then we can talk about Sunday, and if everything goes well, you can have game two.”

For a moment, there was quiet. Mike's mouth opened and closed with a deep, thoughtful breath. Without any trouble, Phil held his gaze. Off to the side, May looked between them, and Andrew pulled out his phone.

“…Yessir,” Mike murmured at last, his face hard, as if he wanted to argue. Good. (At the same time, May’s brows quirked at the decision.) Coulson hoped that Mike would do well; hoped that he'd use some successes to argue his way back into the lineup. Having a player that only ever listened to him would be as boring as a team that only ever won; he wanted his players to have some _ spark_, some motivation.

He was glad to see the injury hadn’t dampened Mike’s spirit.

“Gonzalez – he’s the pitching coach now - is already down there, working with the others. Go on out there, say hi.” Coulson let out a warm breath now that the staredown was done. “There are plenty of people who missed you, and some who’d like to meet you.”

In fact, he could already hear chatter from the bullpen, a couple raised voices that no doubt must have been coming from the raised bleacher seats right inside the door. Only, instead of those seats being used as a vantage point for relief pitchers to watch a game as it went on, it was now a place where a couple of the relivers had climbed up in order to get a look at what had been happening on the other side of the field.

Coulson raised his hand and waved to them as he listened;

“_Is that Mike?” _

_ “Wait- Jemma, who is Mike-?” _

_ “The guy who got hurt before you got here, Robbie- but- Hey! Fitz! Mike is back! _”

_ “Seriously? Finally, some good damn news!” _

The chorus attracted attention from those who had been playing catch in right field. Honestly, half the team that Mike had known was now gone, but the half that remained reacted just as Coulson expected. Daisy’s face was alight with glee as she rushed over, hands raised in a high five that got immediate, hearty reciprocation. The next person over was the centerfielder, Trip- Trip knew of Mike, had been on the team not long before the injury happened, but the handshake that went on definitely looked more introductory than reunion. The introductions continued when the others filed over; Bobbi, Piper, Davis, Mack, Robie, Prince, Hunter, among others, let alone the gaggle in the bullpen which had opened the gate and were coming over.

Coulson had to remind himself that not every day would be that easy. With so many people around one another for so long, not everyone would get along. Not every day. Not with everyone else. But, for one brief moment in a cool March morning, where Virginia had decided would feel more like winter than spring, all the pieces seemed to be in the right place.

May stepped forward so that she was now in line with both Coulson and Andrew, with Coulson standing in the middle. Her careful eyes were slightly narrowed as she watched the team as they entertained this short break brought on by Mike. Before long, their noise died down, and groups began to splinter off- some headed back to the bullpen, some went toward the batting cage. “You don’t want Mike to pitch game two because you’re 'worried' about him,” Coulson heard May muse. He remained silent, beckoned her to continue- which she did, her head turned so she could now eye him. “You want to make sure _ he’s _ the one pitching against Ward.”

Andrew dipped his chin, as if he’d expected that answer. Coulson, on the other hand, let out a slow, slow breath. There it was- the other headline that loomed over the team during this pre-season. For as much talent as they’d acquired, half the storylines were about the talent that had been let go- most notably, a damn talented starting pitcher by the name of Grant Ward.

“It was the last straw, May,” Phil murmured. “It’s his fault Mike got hurt.”

May made an agreeing sound. “I’d never seen Fury trade a man so fast.”

“Agents say Nick was on the phone basically _ offering _ him to other teams the second Ward was ejected from that game,” Andrew added in.

“Sure, it sucked to see a good starter go,” Coulson waved a hand toward the players. “But what’s all that talent when the guy was constantly starting fights, and where we could expect an ejection at _ least _ once a month? No. We _had_ a pitcher; now, I feel like we have a goddamn _ team _.”

“Poetic,” May sounded amused.

“So, yes, I want Mike Peterson to pitch our second game. Bobbi is good; she deserves an opening day on her resume. She’ll do well.” Coulson looked at the tablet, at the small calendar app on the corner, where dates were colored in with a deep, full gray color to signify they would be playing a home game. “But Mike deserves to show up the jerk that put him in the hospital. And I’m sure plenty of other people feel the same way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Members of the "WASHINGTON D.C. SHIELD"
> 
> OFFICES  
Owner: Nick Fury  
General Manager: Maria Hill  
Front Office Member: Holden Radcliffe 
> 
> Manager: Phil Coulson  
Hitting Coach: Melinda May  
Pitching Coach: Robert Gonzalez  
Base coaches: The Koenig brothers
> 
> PITCHING  
Starter(s): Mike Peterson, Deke Shaw, Bobbi Morse  
Reliver(s): Robbie Reyes [closer], Jemma Simmons [setup]  
Catcher(s): Leopold Fitz [starter], Flint
> 
> INFIELD:  
First base: Davis, Alphonso Mackenzie  
Second base: Lance Hunter [starter]  
Third base: Daisy Johnson [starter], Prince [backup]  
Shortstop: Piper
> 
> OUTFIELD  
Right: Elena Rodriguez, Joey Gutierrez  
Center: Antoine Triplett  
Left: Lincoln Campbell  
  
Many thanks to my buddy Houxe for reminding me of some characters that will be used in later writings,
> 
> And feel free to suggest any and every SHIELD character or side-character you'd like to see at some point!♥


End file.
